It happens so quickly I am often left a little stunned myself. These words, hurtful and abrasive, somewhat unintentional, fly from a dark corner of my mind, and shoot out with a dagger-like sharpness. I know what they can do, but it's as if I don't have control over my own tongue.
I lost it for a while. This unexplainable power of using my words to make others feel as hurt as I do. It's crazy to think that this problem was actually worse when I was younger. I prided myself on the fact that I could turn most arguments around with one quick, witty yet malicious, remark. This continued on until I recognized this disgusting norm of mine around my second year of college. Before then, I considered this habit an endearing quirk of my personality. I would tell myself, "everyone is different, this is how I process, I have the right to speak my mind". How self righteous and thoughtless I became over the extensive period of time I lived this way.
As I mentioned before, it disappeared for a while. I found a medium between being honest about my feelings, and expressing them in more considerate ways. It felt good. But, I think there is a responsibility in recognizing nasty habits, changing them, but also monitoring them long after the change. Otherwise, they could return as quickly as they left.
And so mine has. At first I blamed it on being here. Living on minimal needs in terms of food, clothing, sanitation, and communication, weather that kills handfuls of people every season, and being a female in a country where my gender automatically objectifies me in the eyes of local men. Most days I feel like a walking target. And so living with a higher amount of fear mixed with repressed anger, as a result of frustrating encounters, has led me to once again use harsh words as a mechanism or means of feeling in control. The important thing to remember is that my circumstances are not the issue, my complete lack of trust and this pursuit for control are the means in which my actions stem. These motives, these hidden objectives are what spur any action I do, whether it be the words I speak or the way in which I serve or withhold serving others. This is what needs to be fixed. Not the conditions in which I am in. My actions essentially provide a recognition of the bigger issue. When I lash out with my words, as unintentional as they may seem in my own mind, they are acting as a mirror to who I really am.
Acknowledging the ugly acts we do is not merely enough. Even seeking forgiveness for those acts is just one step closer to the real work that should be done. We must seek what our actions are evidence of. What is provoking us in the tiniest of ways. What bigger issues are we masking? It's learning to see ourselves in the light of our sin because often sin is fueled by the love of self. And so these sinful, self-seeking ways are what must be pulled out by the root. It's what we must surrender and trust that we are incapable of fixing on our own. In our own human weakness, we are quicker to bury than we are to kill, especially if it means killing more of ourselves for the sake of Christ.
I came across what has to be one of my favorite piece of writing by C.S. Lewis in his book, Mere Christianity. I think it does a wonderful job of verbalizing the relationship between action and incentive.
Here is a snippet of what he says:
"We begin to notice, besides our particular sinful acts, our sinfulness; begin to be alarmed not only about what we do, but about what we are. When I come to my evening prayers and try to reckon up the sins of the day, nine times out of ten the most obvious one is some sin against charity; I have sulked or snapped or sneered or snubbed or stormed. And the excuse that immediately springs to my mind is that the provocation was so sudden and unexpected; I was caught off my guard, I had not time to collect myself. Now that may be an extenuating circumstances as regards those particular acts: they would obviously be worse if they had been deliberate and premeditated. On the other hand, surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of a man he is? Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth? If there are rats in a cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly. But the suddenness does not create the rats: it only prevents them from hiding. In the same way the suddenness of the provocation does not make me an ill-tempered man: it only shows me what an ill-tempered man I am.
What we are mattes even more than what we do. What we do matters chiefly as evidence of what we are- then it follows that the change which I most need to undergo is a change that my own direct, voluntary efforts cannot bring about. And this applies to my good actions too. How many of them were done for the right motive? How many for fear of public opinion, or a desire to show off? How many from a sort of obstinacy or sense of superiority which, in different circumstances, might equally have led to some very bad act? But I cannot, by direct moral effort, give myself new motives. After the first few steps in the Christian life we realize that everything which really needs to be done in our souls can be done only by God."
Friday, August 22, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
love in boxes.
It's one of my favorite calls to receive.
I see the two little words "Post Office" flash across the back-lighten screen of my discordant, vibrating phone, equipped with two tiny hand-made decorations hanging from the battery clip. I speedily answer, "bain yy?"
The miniature ornaments swing to and fro, displaying the excitement that I am unable to make obvious, since I don't want to frighten the person on the other end of the conversation. This same conversation, that lasts approximately ten seconds, has once again made my day. The call normally comes around 9 am. I am left to steep in my suspense and delight until noon.
I leave the house or office a few minutes early to be sure that someone is actually working behind the desk, and that the previous call hasn't been some cruel joke played on me by the local post office workers - as has happened on more than one occasion.
Over the clerk's shoulder I can see the blue logo on the front and sides of the white box. The all too familiar packaging tape, that keeps everything in tact, glistens from its dark corner of the room, as this beauty has seen more of the world than most people will in their lifetime. It's becoming more and more challenging to contain my anticipation. Pieces of it begin to creep along the corners of my mouth until my lips can do nothing but blast into an all out smile. She laughs at me every time as I can barely keep my eyes off the prize long enough to sign my name in the small, right hand square of her booklet.
She weights it, if she feels like it, then tosses it onto the tiny wooden window seal that separates her work from my joy. I carry it over to customs to follow the same routine sequence of questions and demands, regardless of who is sitting at the desk,
"Show me your passport."
"Where's this from?"
"Open it."
"What's in it?"
"Tell me in both languages."
"What is that?!"
"Let me see it."
"Where do you live?"
"What's your phone number?"
"Sign here."
I take our half-opened belonging, bear-hugging it to my chest, and make a mad dash for the front door. I hold the opened end tightly in hopes that pieces of the treasure do not spill out during the half-mile hike home.
My heart pounds with each step closer to the finish line as I round the corner and make my way up the three flights of stairs to our cement block apartment. I balance the box on my left knobby knee as I jiggle the key into the lock, closer to unlocking the mystery of what's inside (mainly what is in the middle and bottom layer because the customs worker has already strewn the first layer to bits).
The door opens. I lunge inside, barely taking time to remove my key from its position in the door. I throw down my purse or whatever else has been weighing me down along the journey home and dart immediately into the kitchen, allowing the package to catch its breath on the kitchen table. I stare at it. After a moment more, I gently pull back the four tiny flaps that had worked so hard at transporting the contents from one end of the world to the other.
I begin to dig.
With each pull back my hand unlocks another piece to the puzzle.
I reach in again.
Every time my hand goes back for more, it is met with yet another remarkable encounter.
Again. And again. And again.
The feeling resembles digging into an oversized, square version of a Christmas stocking stuffed by a professional packer. I can see the bottom of the box from the outside, but when my fingers begin to investigate, it feels like the goodies will never end. I keep going, and my imagination is met with a tangible item.
I take out each piece of the collection and line them up on the kitchen counter as if making a nutritional army. After many "Whoas! Wows! and Ooooos!" I put each product into its place on the upper shelf.
Each cardboard bliss-box has its own personality. Some are hilarious and filled with inside jokes, photos, notes, or things that you may not even know what to do with; while others have this warm nurturance that is undeniably the feeling of home. Some have check lists with hand-written reminders that people are missing you; while others have items that have undergone major sharpie surgery in that familiar handwriting you have admired since childhood.
No matter the box's characteristics one thing is certain; each one leaves you feeling encouraged, loved, and missing home a little more.
For all of you who make this possible, we are beyond thankful for the ways in which you provide. Until the day comes when we can return and tell you in person how grateful we are, here is your long overdue thank you.
thank you.
thank you.
thank YOU.
I see the two little words "Post Office" flash across the back-lighten screen of my discordant, vibrating phone, equipped with two tiny hand-made decorations hanging from the battery clip. I speedily answer, "bain yy?"
The miniature ornaments swing to and fro, displaying the excitement that I am unable to make obvious, since I don't want to frighten the person on the other end of the conversation. This same conversation, that lasts approximately ten seconds, has once again made my day. The call normally comes around 9 am. I am left to steep in my suspense and delight until noon.
I leave the house or office a few minutes early to be sure that someone is actually working behind the desk, and that the previous call hasn't been some cruel joke played on me by the local post office workers - as has happened on more than one occasion.
Over the clerk's shoulder I can see the blue logo on the front and sides of the white box. The all too familiar packaging tape, that keeps everything in tact, glistens from its dark corner of the room, as this beauty has seen more of the world than most people will in their lifetime. It's becoming more and more challenging to contain my anticipation. Pieces of it begin to creep along the corners of my mouth until my lips can do nothing but blast into an all out smile. She laughs at me every time as I can barely keep my eyes off the prize long enough to sign my name in the small, right hand square of her booklet.
She weights it, if she feels like it, then tosses it onto the tiny wooden window seal that separates her work from my joy. I carry it over to customs to follow the same routine sequence of questions and demands, regardless of who is sitting at the desk,
"Show me your passport."
"Where's this from?"
"Open it."
"What's in it?"
"Tell me in both languages."
"What is that?!"
"Let me see it."
"Where do you live?"
"What's your phone number?"
"Sign here."
I take our half-opened belonging, bear-hugging it to my chest, and make a mad dash for the front door. I hold the opened end tightly in hopes that pieces of the treasure do not spill out during the half-mile hike home.
My heart pounds with each step closer to the finish line as I round the corner and make my way up the three flights of stairs to our cement block apartment. I balance the box on my left knobby knee as I jiggle the key into the lock, closer to unlocking the mystery of what's inside (mainly what is in the middle and bottom layer because the customs worker has already strewn the first layer to bits).
The door opens. I lunge inside, barely taking time to remove my key from its position in the door. I throw down my purse or whatever else has been weighing me down along the journey home and dart immediately into the kitchen, allowing the package to catch its breath on the kitchen table. I stare at it. After a moment more, I gently pull back the four tiny flaps that had worked so hard at transporting the contents from one end of the world to the other.
I begin to dig.
With each pull back my hand unlocks another piece to the puzzle.
I reach in again.
Every time my hand goes back for more, it is met with yet another remarkable encounter.
Again. And again. And again.
The feeling resembles digging into an oversized, square version of a Christmas stocking stuffed by a professional packer. I can see the bottom of the box from the outside, but when my fingers begin to investigate, it feels like the goodies will never end. I keep going, and my imagination is met with a tangible item.
I take out each piece of the collection and line them up on the kitchen counter as if making a nutritional army. After many "Whoas! Wows! and Ooooos!" I put each product into its place on the upper shelf.
Each cardboard bliss-box has its own personality. Some are hilarious and filled with inside jokes, photos, notes, or things that you may not even know what to do with; while others have this warm nurturance that is undeniably the feeling of home. Some have check lists with hand-written reminders that people are missing you; while others have items that have undergone major sharpie surgery in that familiar handwriting you have admired since childhood.
No matter the box's characteristics one thing is certain; each one leaves you feeling encouraged, loved, and missing home a little more.
For all of you who make this possible, we are beyond thankful for the ways in which you provide. Until the day comes when we can return and tell you in person how grateful we are, here is your long overdue thank you.
thank you.
thank you.
thank YOU.
Work Update
It has been quite a while since I have written any thing in regards to my work here. This saddens me considering I started this blog with the intention of updating you all as much as possible, in hopes that you may experience things with me as they were happening. But, I guess intentions are meaningless unless carried out. Sorry that you have only been given the details after the face. But...
This update will be no different. : )
When I arrived here over a year ago, I tried to fool myself into believing I had no expectations. While in some aspects this may have been true, such as living with a host family and studying the language, I must confess that in other ways I was subtly setting myself up for misery. As arrogant as it may sound, I thought no matter what my work may turn out to be, surely I can keep myself busy doing things I have done before. Maybe I could help start a shelter for prostitutes or work with kids at the local orphanage, start a mentor program, etc. It's a shame when we hinder our ability to serve based solely on the feeling that we would rather move or work in areas where we know we are capable. Am I that afraid of failure? And if so, why? Because of the way others may perceive me or even how I perceive myself? Should those thoughts really be the motivation behind any type of work I do?
Lets be honest.
In our laziness, we would rather spend our time in an area where we feel we are qualified or know the material (whether we enjoy the practice or not) rather than taking the time to exercise new areas of study/work at the risk of failure. What cowards we are. We like our safety net. Our bubble. Satisfaction in the mere act of doing.
That was my first struggle with work here.
Then you add my cowardice to the fact that I was placed in two different organizations, splitting my time, effort, and project ideas between both, with the weight of corrupt school systems, low attendance, lack of motivation from both agencies for change, and people in power that should not be. In the beginning, I thought the most difficult part would be the language barrier. Unable to express my ideas or communicate with both co-workers and students. While that was extremely difficult, the bigger problems were in the foundation of even the most basic operations, almost all of which I was unable to even speak about, let alone call for change. So I puddled around, doing random side projects outside of school, slowly killing time, and constantly battling my inability to move in a new direction with the unwillingness to want to help the crookedly doings of my agencies.
Flash forward eight months into service and I had one of the most rewarding meetings since being here, although my regional managers may not have seen it as such. But after almost two hours of tense, agitated discussion, I was pulled from my positions at both schools. That's right. In a matter of hours I was able to leave both agencies. For a block of time I didn't know if Nick and I would be sent home, relocated, or able to find a new job that would adhere to all of the requirements of having a volunteer. Turns out the latter one happened. After a couple of meetings I was placed with the local children's center. Though I have only been there for three months, in a matter of days, I felt more at ease and excited about this center than the eight months combined at the other agencies.
That catches you up to now. Since being there, I have come to terms that no matter where I work here, I will be forced to teach or lead at least some activities that I either don't know anything about, don't think I am capable of doing, or just don't want to do. Maybe that is just how things work when you volunteer. It's as if you don't fully know what you are volunteering for, even if you are given a job statement, book to follow, and pushed through rigorous training in advance. I feel as though I put my life and work in the hands of others around me every day. All of which is terrifying, humbling, and humorous at the same time.
Since it is summer, there are only some of the local youth, the cleaning lady, and myself left at work. That's right. Everyone, in every position, of every profession, gets at least half of the summer off to do whatever they want. No exaggeration. No joke. So all of my work is out. But since some of the kids from the center are around, we have been having English and computer classes lately. It's been mellow but nice.
Soon everything will be back to the normal chaos. Photography class will pick up again. I will be doing seminars on AIDS training, child labor, and interactive teaching, on top of the usual English conversation club and life skills classes. But the busier the better. It will help the winter pass more quickly when it begins to arrive in a couple of months.
Other than that, Nick and I have been taking it easy. We went to the countryside with his work for a holiday and took pictures for our friends wedding last weekend. We also battled a great combination of food poisoning/heat stroke/the flu for six days back and forth. That was special.
So that is the update for now. I will do my best to not fall into the same absent update routine that I have in the past. It's all about stretching yourself, right?:)
This update will be no different. : )
When I arrived here over a year ago, I tried to fool myself into believing I had no expectations. While in some aspects this may have been true, such as living with a host family and studying the language, I must confess that in other ways I was subtly setting myself up for misery. As arrogant as it may sound, I thought no matter what my work may turn out to be, surely I can keep myself busy doing things I have done before. Maybe I could help start a shelter for prostitutes or work with kids at the local orphanage, start a mentor program, etc. It's a shame when we hinder our ability to serve based solely on the feeling that we would rather move or work in areas where we know we are capable. Am I that afraid of failure? And if so, why? Because of the way others may perceive me or even how I perceive myself? Should those thoughts really be the motivation behind any type of work I do?
Lets be honest.
In our laziness, we would rather spend our time in an area where we feel we are qualified or know the material (whether we enjoy the practice or not) rather than taking the time to exercise new areas of study/work at the risk of failure. What cowards we are. We like our safety net. Our bubble. Satisfaction in the mere act of doing.
That was my first struggle with work here.
Then you add my cowardice to the fact that I was placed in two different organizations, splitting my time, effort, and project ideas between both, with the weight of corrupt school systems, low attendance, lack of motivation from both agencies for change, and people in power that should not be. In the beginning, I thought the most difficult part would be the language barrier. Unable to express my ideas or communicate with both co-workers and students. While that was extremely difficult, the bigger problems were in the foundation of even the most basic operations, almost all of which I was unable to even speak about, let alone call for change. So I puddled around, doing random side projects outside of school, slowly killing time, and constantly battling my inability to move in a new direction with the unwillingness to want to help the crookedly doings of my agencies.
Flash forward eight months into service and I had one of the most rewarding meetings since being here, although my regional managers may not have seen it as such. But after almost two hours of tense, agitated discussion, I was pulled from my positions at both schools. That's right. In a matter of hours I was able to leave both agencies. For a block of time I didn't know if Nick and I would be sent home, relocated, or able to find a new job that would adhere to all of the requirements of having a volunteer. Turns out the latter one happened. After a couple of meetings I was placed with the local children's center. Though I have only been there for three months, in a matter of days, I felt more at ease and excited about this center than the eight months combined at the other agencies.
That catches you up to now. Since being there, I have come to terms that no matter where I work here, I will be forced to teach or lead at least some activities that I either don't know anything about, don't think I am capable of doing, or just don't want to do. Maybe that is just how things work when you volunteer. It's as if you don't fully know what you are volunteering for, even if you are given a job statement, book to follow, and pushed through rigorous training in advance. I feel as though I put my life and work in the hands of others around me every day. All of which is terrifying, humbling, and humorous at the same time.
Since it is summer, there are only some of the local youth, the cleaning lady, and myself left at work. That's right. Everyone, in every position, of every profession, gets at least half of the summer off to do whatever they want. No exaggeration. No joke. So all of my work is out. But since some of the kids from the center are around, we have been having English and computer classes lately. It's been mellow but nice.
Soon everything will be back to the normal chaos. Photography class will pick up again. I will be doing seminars on AIDS training, child labor, and interactive teaching, on top of the usual English conversation club and life skills classes. But the busier the better. It will help the winter pass more quickly when it begins to arrive in a couple of months.
Other than that, Nick and I have been taking it easy. We went to the countryside with his work for a holiday and took pictures for our friends wedding last weekend. We also battled a great combination of food poisoning/heat stroke/the flu for six days back and forth. That was special.
So that is the update for now. I will do my best to not fall into the same absent update routine that I have in the past. It's all about stretching yourself, right?:)
Thursday, July 24, 2008
which is worse?
I stood there in the midst of the summer breeze in front of the large, double paned window, frozen with the same feeling I had that night- the last night I saw him.
It was somewhere on that curve-ish path that winds itself through the main street of the theme park. I remember holding the hand of my mother's friend who so kindly extended her generosity to my brother and I, allowing us to tag along with her family that day, insisting that every child should go to Disneyland. It was beginning to get dark. That perfect time of day in the park when the sun just finished setting and all the night lights come on, illuminating the tiniest of details that you somehow missed before. Maybe it's because in the summer heat you beg for shade as you wait in line for hours before receiving the fulfillment of wrapping your fingers around the bars in front of you, as the worker makes his last check that everyone is buckled in. Or maybe my five-year-old eyes just enjoyed all the bright colors of the lights as they dashed around sign to sign and ride to ride. But something made it more enjoyable to wait in the beginning hours of darkness around the park for me. It was then, with Splash Mountain to my left, that I saw him. It was the first time since "the incident". He seemed so happy with his other family that it infuriated me. Part of me wanted to run over and kick him, step on his foot, or maybe give one good punch to the back of his knee, anything at all to make him feel the pain of abandonment and hurt that he has selfishly imposed upon the three of us, leaving us in agony before fleeing to his get away car with her in the passenger seat.
But I did nothing.
I don't think I even told anyone that I saw him that night until years later. I just stood there- helpless and silent- like I did the night of "the incident".
"The incident" happened one year earlier. My brother was to my right, also inaudible except for the tiny whimpers between the tears streaming down his face that he wiped immediately, refusing to let anyone see that he had an ounce of sensitive emotions in him, even at the age of six. I stood next to him, muted and wide eyed, confused at what had just happened. Both of us looked down at our mother who screamed for help, paralyzed with pain because of him. I was in my pajamas, ready for bed.
It's eighteen years later and these images crash into me like an blindside sack knocks the wind out of a quarterback. Again I am in my pajamas, on a late summer evening, with the lights above me revealing an all too familiar scene. Only this time, it is not my family in the privacy of my front yard. And not even my home country but a land that I still realize I neither understand or connect with fully. But there I was, three stories above them, watching the chaos of a domestic violence dispute happening in the middle of the street. I feel the rage of unspoken questions and anger slowly make their way from the knot in my gut, up my chest, to that tiny spot in the back of my throat. This is the first time they have every made their way this high. They are so close to spilling over. They want out. Her screams get louder and louder, the sounds of their fists clobbering pound harder and harder. People pass them constantly in small groups pretending that nothing is happening. Four drunk men sit watching in between their sips of vodka on the bench below my window when they came out. The screams that have been bottled in for years flowed out in the native tongue of the people below me, with a sort of intensity that almost scared myself had I not known the tiring process it took to muster them up.
"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! LEAVE HER ALONE! GO HOME NOW! SOMEONE HELP HER!" I shouted.
The street became silent and her crying stopped. But it only lasted a moment.
The drunk men below yell at me to go inside and mind my own business.
I decline.
A younger couple of teenage boys, finally come to break up the fight that had been lasting a good five minutes by now.
My throat burned from screaming so loud. It felt as if the tiny cords had been melted like a hot plastic wire.
Though I wanted to feel satisfaction for finally gathering courage to shout all the words I never said as a child, I just couldn't. Instead, the sense of accomplishment was met with a question.
Which is worse- hiding abuse in the privacy of your own home or make believing that nothing is happening when evidence is right before your eyes, calling for help, from the middle of a street?
Either way, in these cases, silence is useless.
It was somewhere on that curve-ish path that winds itself through the main street of the theme park. I remember holding the hand of my mother's friend who so kindly extended her generosity to my brother and I, allowing us to tag along with her family that day, insisting that every child should go to Disneyland. It was beginning to get dark. That perfect time of day in the park when the sun just finished setting and all the night lights come on, illuminating the tiniest of details that you somehow missed before. Maybe it's because in the summer heat you beg for shade as you wait in line for hours before receiving the fulfillment of wrapping your fingers around the bars in front of you, as the worker makes his last check that everyone is buckled in. Or maybe my five-year-old eyes just enjoyed all the bright colors of the lights as they dashed around sign to sign and ride to ride. But something made it more enjoyable to wait in the beginning hours of darkness around the park for me. It was then, with Splash Mountain to my left, that I saw him. It was the first time since "the incident". He seemed so happy with his other family that it infuriated me. Part of me wanted to run over and kick him, step on his foot, or maybe give one good punch to the back of his knee, anything at all to make him feel the pain of abandonment and hurt that he has selfishly imposed upon the three of us, leaving us in agony before fleeing to his get away car with her in the passenger seat.
But I did nothing.
I don't think I even told anyone that I saw him that night until years later. I just stood there- helpless and silent- like I did the night of "the incident".
"The incident" happened one year earlier. My brother was to my right, also inaudible except for the tiny whimpers between the tears streaming down his face that he wiped immediately, refusing to let anyone see that he had an ounce of sensitive emotions in him, even at the age of six. I stood next to him, muted and wide eyed, confused at what had just happened. Both of us looked down at our mother who screamed for help, paralyzed with pain because of him. I was in my pajamas, ready for bed.
It's eighteen years later and these images crash into me like an blindside sack knocks the wind out of a quarterback. Again I am in my pajamas, on a late summer evening, with the lights above me revealing an all too familiar scene. Only this time, it is not my family in the privacy of my front yard. And not even my home country but a land that I still realize I neither understand or connect with fully. But there I was, three stories above them, watching the chaos of a domestic violence dispute happening in the middle of the street. I feel the rage of unspoken questions and anger slowly make their way from the knot in my gut, up my chest, to that tiny spot in the back of my throat. This is the first time they have every made their way this high. They are so close to spilling over. They want out. Her screams get louder and louder, the sounds of their fists clobbering pound harder and harder. People pass them constantly in small groups pretending that nothing is happening. Four drunk men sit watching in between their sips of vodka on the bench below my window when they came out. The screams that have been bottled in for years flowed out in the native tongue of the people below me, with a sort of intensity that almost scared myself had I not known the tiring process it took to muster them up.
"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! LEAVE HER ALONE! GO HOME NOW! SOMEONE HELP HER!" I shouted.
The street became silent and her crying stopped. But it only lasted a moment.
The drunk men below yell at me to go inside and mind my own business.
I decline.
A younger couple of teenage boys, finally come to break up the fight that had been lasting a good five minutes by now.
My throat burned from screaming so loud. It felt as if the tiny cords had been melted like a hot plastic wire.
Though I wanted to feel satisfaction for finally gathering courage to shout all the words I never said as a child, I just couldn't. Instead, the sense of accomplishment was met with a question.
Which is worse- hiding abuse in the privacy of your own home or make believing that nothing is happening when evidence is right before your eyes, calling for help, from the middle of a street?
Either way, in these cases, silence is useless.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
1 year down...
...14 months to go!
That's right. I am writing on the same exact day that I arrived to Mongolia one year ago. My mind cannot even begin to wrap around what I have learned and seen in this short but compact time of growth in my life. I left all that was familiar to me with a rather different mindset than the one I have now. Tonight, there will be a group of over 60 Volunteers from the States (the largest group to ever come here in the 18 years PC has been working in Mongolia) beginning exactly where I had to a year ago. I remember all the excitement of going to a new place with an open mind for what is to come, mixed with the sadness of leaving those you love and care for back home, topped off with the dreariness of completing the 18 hour flight (not including layovers) and the 16 hour time change of your life. The whole world seems a little upside down, but your mind is still racing trying to imagine what Mongolia looks like in the daylight. (We arrived at 11:30 pm and were taken by bus, in total darkness, to the countryside for our first night).
So, in honor of those coming today, here is, in no particular order, a small list of the lessons I have learned in my first year here, followed by things I hope to never take for granted in the United States. All of which are true, regardless of how silly they may seem. : )
1. Though the host family's pots look rusty, as if they are used for cleaning, they are in fact used for cooking, so washing your underwear in them is a very bad idea.
2. Carrying cookies in your pockets keeps you from getting rabies. Not because they have special power, but because all dogs like them, no matter how much they may be foaming at the mouth.
3. It takes approximately two women and three trips to the water pump, a half mile down the road, to fill the 20 gallon, metal trash can, used as a water supply inside the house for the following week.
4: I can use my body to tell the temperature in the winter. For example:
-5 to -10: My hands turn purple, even with my mittens on, by the time I reach the sports complex, approximately a five minute walk from my home.
-10 to -15: After being outside for around 30 seconds, snot-cicles begin to form. This is where every ounce of fluid contained inside your nose, freezes together to create rather sharp and frozen sticks, resembling icicles that I once admired on the roofs of cabins in Big Bear.
-15 to - 20: It becomes so cold that my eyes water uncontrollably; however, it is also the temperature range at which small amounts of fluids freeze almost immediately. This means that within seconds, my eyelashes stick themselves together. On these days I look like I have a bad case of tics, as my only defense is to blink, extremely hard, in hopes that my lashes will unstick themselves during my 12 minute walk to work.
- 20 to - 40: I am forced to wear so many layers that I waddle like a penguin. This range of temperature also contains all the other strange discomforts of the pervious levels. You really just can't feel anything. And any bodily form that is exposed, for long periods of time, is a likely candidate for frostbite. We all get to walk around, with everything, including our faces wrapped, resembling colorful ninjas.
5. Your water distiller can, in fact, be a fire hazard.
6. Public forms of exercise are not common in all countries. You run a high risk of herdsmen asking you, "what is chasing you?" or "what are you running from?" and the option of children throwing rocks at you, if you decide to go for a jog.
7. Changing the temperature on an oven is a luxury. Other ovens, can and will, electrocute you...twice.
8. Every taxi ride you take, will inevitably take three times longer than expected. There is also a possibility that the driver will take you up a mountain, visit a friend/family members ger, make you eat freshly killed goat out of a pan, ride their horse, and milk their cow.
9. Two-headed cows do exist. There is one inside my city's museum. However, they take it as a miraculous surprise. I can't help but look at the mine down the road, near where the cow was found, and think of my water supply as a threat.
10. Camels are living dinosaurs. And there are still theories about birds.
11. The long-winded, scientific names for dinosaurs are boring. The better names include: big dinosaur, little dinosaur, and the ostrich like dinosaur.
12. All people love basketball. Including the fingerless, drunk man that wants to take a shot.
13. If you are white, you are automatically Russian.
14. The best pick up line I have ever heard evolved from this:
Rachel and I were teaching our photography class about motion and movement. We decided a great project would be, combining photography with earth day, to use recyclable items and teach them how to make and decorate kites. After running around on the top of a mountain in the chaos known as Mongolian Spring wind, a teenage boy drives past on his way to who knows where, see us flying our kites, and decides to take a detour. He then drives his vehicle up the side of the mountain, flinging up dirt, rocks and dust, leaving us momentarily blind, rolls down his window, and in a sly and seductive manner asks in Mongolian:
" you wanna tie your kites to my car?"
--------------------------------------------------
In no particular order, I vow to never again take the following for granted:
1. The FDA and ADA
2. personal space and single file lines
3. OPTIONS, OPTIONS, OPTIONS!!
4. grocery stores and supermarkets...being able to buy most of what you need in a single place.
5. selections of shoes made especially for people that are taller than 5'2" or have a shoe size larger than a 5.
6. anything and everything antibacterial.
7. BOOK STORES!
8. thick walls in your house.
9. shower heads.
10. being able to control the temperature inside your house.
11. the combination of the washer AND dryer. Particularly, the magical lint catcher that is attached to the dryer.
12. ovens, microwaves, pots, pans, and anything else that helps cook the foods I love.
13. the option of good health care
14. the dentist. (oh how i love and miss you so)
15. the efficiency of the United States Postal Service, including having mail delivered to your door.
16. mattresses and beds that are longer than a child's size twin.
17. fast, working, consistent internet
18. paved roads
19. safety laws, especially for drivers and pedestrians.
20. Coffee shops!
21. alcohol limits.
22. various forms of entertainment.
23. being able to work out or even be outside (without getting heat stroke or freezing to death) for more than 2-3 months a year.
24. wearing flip flops or sandals of any form, shape, and color!
and last but far from least...
25. THE OCEAN!
____________________________
So there it is. Believe me, the list grows on a daily basis. I try to absorb or soak in as much as possible, each and every day. There are always surprises as this opportunity most often resembles a roller coaster, with twists, turns, and loops that leave you breathless yet begging for more. New lessons and stories are bound to come and I promise to store some up to share with you, in person, upon our return. I am sure Nick has some of his own as well.
Regardless of how silly or minor some of these lessons and longings seem, each one leads to a more expansive understanding of God, myself, this culture, and the undeserving blessing bestowed upon me to have been born in America. There are incalculable deeper lessons that have resulted from all these humorous/ minor comprehensions. Ones that humble my spirit, quiet my soul, and protect the flickering yet constant burning desire to live in faith. And those are what have made this first year worth while and supply me fuel for the upcoming months.
in the words of my adorable husband...
more to come.
Kim
That's right. I am writing on the same exact day that I arrived to Mongolia one year ago. My mind cannot even begin to wrap around what I have learned and seen in this short but compact time of growth in my life. I left all that was familiar to me with a rather different mindset than the one I have now. Tonight, there will be a group of over 60 Volunteers from the States (the largest group to ever come here in the 18 years PC has been working in Mongolia) beginning exactly where I had to a year ago. I remember all the excitement of going to a new place with an open mind for what is to come, mixed with the sadness of leaving those you love and care for back home, topped off with the dreariness of completing the 18 hour flight (not including layovers) and the 16 hour time change of your life. The whole world seems a little upside down, but your mind is still racing trying to imagine what Mongolia looks like in the daylight. (We arrived at 11:30 pm and were taken by bus, in total darkness, to the countryside for our first night).
So, in honor of those coming today, here is, in no particular order, a small list of the lessons I have learned in my first year here, followed by things I hope to never take for granted in the United States. All of which are true, regardless of how silly they may seem. : )
1. Though the host family's pots look rusty, as if they are used for cleaning, they are in fact used for cooking, so washing your underwear in them is a very bad idea.
2. Carrying cookies in your pockets keeps you from getting rabies. Not because they have special power, but because all dogs like them, no matter how much they may be foaming at the mouth.
3. It takes approximately two women and three trips to the water pump, a half mile down the road, to fill the 20 gallon, metal trash can, used as a water supply inside the house for the following week.
4: I can use my body to tell the temperature in the winter. For example:
-5 to -10: My hands turn purple, even with my mittens on, by the time I reach the sports complex, approximately a five minute walk from my home.
-10 to -15: After being outside for around 30 seconds, snot-cicles begin to form. This is where every ounce of fluid contained inside your nose, freezes together to create rather sharp and frozen sticks, resembling icicles that I once admired on the roofs of cabins in Big Bear.
-15 to - 20: It becomes so cold that my eyes water uncontrollably; however, it is also the temperature range at which small amounts of fluids freeze almost immediately. This means that within seconds, my eyelashes stick themselves together. On these days I look like I have a bad case of tics, as my only defense is to blink, extremely hard, in hopes that my lashes will unstick themselves during my 12 minute walk to work.
- 20 to - 40: I am forced to wear so many layers that I waddle like a penguin. This range of temperature also contains all the other strange discomforts of the pervious levels. You really just can't feel anything. And any bodily form that is exposed, for long periods of time, is a likely candidate for frostbite. We all get to walk around, with everything, including our faces wrapped, resembling colorful ninjas.
5. Your water distiller can, in fact, be a fire hazard.
6. Public forms of exercise are not common in all countries. You run a high risk of herdsmen asking you, "what is chasing you?" or "what are you running from?" and the option of children throwing rocks at you, if you decide to go for a jog.
7. Changing the temperature on an oven is a luxury. Other ovens, can and will, electrocute you...twice.
8. Every taxi ride you take, will inevitably take three times longer than expected. There is also a possibility that the driver will take you up a mountain, visit a friend/family members ger, make you eat freshly killed goat out of a pan, ride their horse, and milk their cow.
9. Two-headed cows do exist. There is one inside my city's museum. However, they take it as a miraculous surprise. I can't help but look at the mine down the road, near where the cow was found, and think of my water supply as a threat.
10. Camels are living dinosaurs. And there are still theories about birds.
11. The long-winded, scientific names for dinosaurs are boring. The better names include: big dinosaur, little dinosaur, and the ostrich like dinosaur.
12. All people love basketball. Including the fingerless, drunk man that wants to take a shot.
13. If you are white, you are automatically Russian.
14. The best pick up line I have ever heard evolved from this:
Rachel and I were teaching our photography class about motion and movement. We decided a great project would be, combining photography with earth day, to use recyclable items and teach them how to make and decorate kites. After running around on the top of a mountain in the chaos known as Mongolian Spring wind, a teenage boy drives past on his way to who knows where, see us flying our kites, and decides to take a detour. He then drives his vehicle up the side of the mountain, flinging up dirt, rocks and dust, leaving us momentarily blind, rolls down his window, and in a sly and seductive manner asks in Mongolian:
" you wanna tie your kites to my car?"
--------------------------------------------------
In no particular order, I vow to never again take the following for granted:
1. The FDA and ADA
2. personal space and single file lines
3. OPTIONS, OPTIONS, OPTIONS!!
4. grocery stores and supermarkets...being able to buy most of what you need in a single place.
5. selections of shoes made especially for people that are taller than 5'2" or have a shoe size larger than a 5.
6. anything and everything antibacterial.
7. BOOK STORES!
8. thick walls in your house.
9. shower heads.
10. being able to control the temperature inside your house.
11. the combination of the washer AND dryer. Particularly, the magical lint catcher that is attached to the dryer.
12. ovens, microwaves, pots, pans, and anything else that helps cook the foods I love.
13. the option of good health care
14. the dentist. (oh how i love and miss you so)
15. the efficiency of the United States Postal Service, including having mail delivered to your door.
16. mattresses and beds that are longer than a child's size twin.
17. fast, working, consistent internet
18. paved roads
19. safety laws, especially for drivers and pedestrians.
20. Coffee shops!
21. alcohol limits.
22. various forms of entertainment.
23. being able to work out or even be outside (without getting heat stroke or freezing to death) for more than 2-3 months a year.
24. wearing flip flops or sandals of any form, shape, and color!
and last but far from least...
25. THE OCEAN!
____________________________
So there it is. Believe me, the list grows on a daily basis. I try to absorb or soak in as much as possible, each and every day. There are always surprises as this opportunity most often resembles a roller coaster, with twists, turns, and loops that leave you breathless yet begging for more. New lessons and stories are bound to come and I promise to store some up to share with you, in person, upon our return. I am sure Nick has some of his own as well.
Regardless of how silly or minor some of these lessons and longings seem, each one leads to a more expansive understanding of God, myself, this culture, and the undeserving blessing bestowed upon me to have been born in America. There are incalculable deeper lessons that have resulted from all these humorous/ minor comprehensions. Ones that humble my spirit, quiet my soul, and protect the flickering yet constant burning desire to live in faith. And those are what have made this first year worth while and supply me fuel for the upcoming months.
in the words of my adorable husband...
more to come.
Kim
Monday, April 21, 2008
marriage lesson on replay
I am beginning to think that I will never have marriage figured out. I know it is beyond new to me, not only in terms of Nick and I still being newlyweds, but because the only examples of "good" marriages I saw while growing up were extremely limited and lived vicariously through the lives of my friends.
I am currently reading a book called, Sacred Marriage: What If God Designed Marriage to Make Us Holy More Than to Make Us Happy. The book breaks down the areas of spiritual life that could and should be enhanced by the unity of marriage. There is something all together fascinating about what happens to you as a result of the patterns your spouse notices in your behaviors. We are often too blinded by our own sin (or maybe it is easier to ignore when we are single) to recognize the darkest places, habits, and oddities of who we are. This can be evident in who or what we worship, how we lack the ability to truly forgive, the inability to embrace difficulty in order to build character, and the fearfulness of exposing our sin.
I am not sure if this more "holy" behavior was God's intention when He first created woman for man. After all, I seem to realize, at least once a day, how incapable I am of knowing what God has in store for me, let alone all of mankind. Regardless, the generalities of behaviors and thought patterns that the book points out leave me convicted, confessing, and seeking forgiveness in ways I never dared to do before marriage. I praise God for giving me a patient and great communicator as a partner. I couldn't have reached any of these understandings without him.
One of my favorite things (insert sarcasm here) about much of my thought process, is the cycle of telling myself I have no expectations for what I am embarking on, only to realize later once my inner needs (which can be seen as expectations) are not being met, I become hurt, angry, frustrated, or withdraw. I believe we try to convince ourselves that we have no expectations, in hopes that we may not feel disappointment in case things do not go according to plan. I would have to argue that denying expectations is denying the very fact that we are creative, thinking, self-seeking human beings where motive drives us and failure or mistakes help us better understand what we may want to improve. Regardless of how tiny or hidden expectations are, I believe they exist in almost all activities of our lives. Whether or not we choose to express, examine, or invest in them is how they differ.
My issue comes when I fail to dig deeper into what I thought marriage might be like with Nick. After many discussions, I have realized not only what these ideals were, but why and how they were made. I don't know if all women tend to do this, but there is an overwhelming sense of fantasy that exists in my brain. My ideas come about after making a very concrete and visual example in my head with a little outside influence.
I will give you an illustration of how this played itself out in my marriage so far.
Nick and I knew that communication would be extremely difficult as soon as I left for Mongolia. Considering the distance, lack of resources, and both of us feeling loved through the use of words, we decided to set up a private blog where we would write each other as often as possible throughout the week. Nick would update regularly while I would write for weeks at a time on my computer until I could find internet and upload all that I had documented. These updates included everything from daily tasks to spiritual struggles. It was full of confession, experience, longing, honesty, trust, and anticipation. Nick's words about us, marriage, and our future together would stick in my mind for days at a time. They were descriptive and exciting. I loved every one of those posts and am extremely grateful for the time and effort that went into making our communication work as best it could given the circumstances.
The issue came after the "I do". Suddenly, all that was written was not exactly as I envisioned it in my head and I could not figure out why I was so upset for what appeared to be nothing. There was an overwhelming sense of confusion somewhere between what had been happening in our marriage and my disguised expectations. The tiniest details of who I was that thrilled Nick before now seemed mundane and unnoticed. After the wedding and the big move, it started to become more apparent that my expectations were far from being met. Let me say here that I never really discussed my expectations with Nick because they seemed inevitable due to what was written to me. So, I began questioning myself. If he wrote these things to me, why are they not showing up? Have I done something wrong? Is Nick not happy with the decision he made?
For a good month, these thoughts bounced in my head throughout the day. The more I questioned, the more I allowed for my tiniest insecurities to creep in and nip at my heels. It was draining on both of us. Since I didn't spend time trying to figure out what my expectations were, they had freedom to play themselves out in the ugliest of ways. Most commonly, they showed themselves through my words.
I believe the mode in which we hurt those we care about is through the way they perceive love most easily. For Nick, it comes verbally. This can either be when I withhold from speaking to him or when I say the sharp, damaging words that I know will not only catch his attention but make him feel as hurt as I do. Both of which I believe can jeopardize our marriage, destroy the foundation we are trying to build, and most importantly, disobey what God tells us marriage should be.
So often I find myself thinking one-sided. I believe that only my actions have the capability to destroy all that I find beautiful and sacred within my marriage and friendships. What I fail to recognize is that my tongue and the absence of a guard on my mouth can be just as detrimental.
There is a song I have been listening to by Maria Taylor that describes this relationship between words and action. It is called "replay" and incidentally it has been replaying on my headphones for the last 5 days. In the song she says, "the weight of our words is what we don't understand. Or the tasks and the part of every woman and every man."
Within a relationship, especially a marriage, each partner is in charge of doing their part in keeping it revered and helping it grow. I don't believe a marriage can move in any direction without first recognizing the sin that will hinder it from doing so.
As I mentioned before, the book I am reading is helping me understand that regardless of what Nick may or may not be doing, there comes a point where I have to give in to the fact that I can't change him. I cannot force him to see me in a certain way. I can't make him do or say the little things that would leave me breathless and giddy like a schoolgirl before. I can only try to love him into the man and husband that I think he is capable of being, and I do this by trying to be the wife that God calls me to be, the partner Nick deserves, and putting the covenant I made with both of them before any expectations I may have. All of which helps me view Nick not as an opponent, but as a living design to help sharpen and reveal where I lack maturity in living faithfully before God.
learning one lesson at a time,
Kim
I am currently reading a book called, Sacred Marriage: What If God Designed Marriage to Make Us Holy More Than to Make Us Happy. The book breaks down the areas of spiritual life that could and should be enhanced by the unity of marriage. There is something all together fascinating about what happens to you as a result of the patterns your spouse notices in your behaviors. We are often too blinded by our own sin (or maybe it is easier to ignore when we are single) to recognize the darkest places, habits, and oddities of who we are. This can be evident in who or what we worship, how we lack the ability to truly forgive, the inability to embrace difficulty in order to build character, and the fearfulness of exposing our sin.
I am not sure if this more "holy" behavior was God's intention when He first created woman for man. After all, I seem to realize, at least once a day, how incapable I am of knowing what God has in store for me, let alone all of mankind. Regardless, the generalities of behaviors and thought patterns that the book points out leave me convicted, confessing, and seeking forgiveness in ways I never dared to do before marriage. I praise God for giving me a patient and great communicator as a partner. I couldn't have reached any of these understandings without him.
One of my favorite things (insert sarcasm here) about much of my thought process, is the cycle of telling myself I have no expectations for what I am embarking on, only to realize later once my inner needs (which can be seen as expectations) are not being met, I become hurt, angry, frustrated, or withdraw. I believe we try to convince ourselves that we have no expectations, in hopes that we may not feel disappointment in case things do not go according to plan. I would have to argue that denying expectations is denying the very fact that we are creative, thinking, self-seeking human beings where motive drives us and failure or mistakes help us better understand what we may want to improve. Regardless of how tiny or hidden expectations are, I believe they exist in almost all activities of our lives. Whether or not we choose to express, examine, or invest in them is how they differ.
My issue comes when I fail to dig deeper into what I thought marriage might be like with Nick. After many discussions, I have realized not only what these ideals were, but why and how they were made. I don't know if all women tend to do this, but there is an overwhelming sense of fantasy that exists in my brain. My ideas come about after making a very concrete and visual example in my head with a little outside influence.
I will give you an illustration of how this played itself out in my marriage so far.
Nick and I knew that communication would be extremely difficult as soon as I left for Mongolia. Considering the distance, lack of resources, and both of us feeling loved through the use of words, we decided to set up a private blog where we would write each other as often as possible throughout the week. Nick would update regularly while I would write for weeks at a time on my computer until I could find internet and upload all that I had documented. These updates included everything from daily tasks to spiritual struggles. It was full of confession, experience, longing, honesty, trust, and anticipation. Nick's words about us, marriage, and our future together would stick in my mind for days at a time. They were descriptive and exciting. I loved every one of those posts and am extremely grateful for the time and effort that went into making our communication work as best it could given the circumstances.
The issue came after the "I do". Suddenly, all that was written was not exactly as I envisioned it in my head and I could not figure out why I was so upset for what appeared to be nothing. There was an overwhelming sense of confusion somewhere between what had been happening in our marriage and my disguised expectations. The tiniest details of who I was that thrilled Nick before now seemed mundane and unnoticed. After the wedding and the big move, it started to become more apparent that my expectations were far from being met. Let me say here that I never really discussed my expectations with Nick because they seemed inevitable due to what was written to me. So, I began questioning myself. If he wrote these things to me, why are they not showing up? Have I done something wrong? Is Nick not happy with the decision he made?
For a good month, these thoughts bounced in my head throughout the day. The more I questioned, the more I allowed for my tiniest insecurities to creep in and nip at my heels. It was draining on both of us. Since I didn't spend time trying to figure out what my expectations were, they had freedom to play themselves out in the ugliest of ways. Most commonly, they showed themselves through my words.
I believe the mode in which we hurt those we care about is through the way they perceive love most easily. For Nick, it comes verbally. This can either be when I withhold from speaking to him or when I say the sharp, damaging words that I know will not only catch his attention but make him feel as hurt as I do. Both of which I believe can jeopardize our marriage, destroy the foundation we are trying to build, and most importantly, disobey what God tells us marriage should be.
So often I find myself thinking one-sided. I believe that only my actions have the capability to destroy all that I find beautiful and sacred within my marriage and friendships. What I fail to recognize is that my tongue and the absence of a guard on my mouth can be just as detrimental.
There is a song I have been listening to by Maria Taylor that describes this relationship between words and action. It is called "replay" and incidentally it has been replaying on my headphones for the last 5 days. In the song she says, "the weight of our words is what we don't understand. Or the tasks and the part of every woman and every man."
Within a relationship, especially a marriage, each partner is in charge of doing their part in keeping it revered and helping it grow. I don't believe a marriage can move in any direction without first recognizing the sin that will hinder it from doing so.
As I mentioned before, the book I am reading is helping me understand that regardless of what Nick may or may not be doing, there comes a point where I have to give in to the fact that I can't change him. I cannot force him to see me in a certain way. I can't make him do or say the little things that would leave me breathless and giddy like a schoolgirl before. I can only try to love him into the man and husband that I think he is capable of being, and I do this by trying to be the wife that God calls me to be, the partner Nick deserves, and putting the covenant I made with both of them before any expectations I may have. All of which helps me view Nick not as an opponent, but as a living design to help sharpen and reveal where I lack maturity in living faithfully before God.
learning one lesson at a time,
Kim
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
more than a thousand words...
here are some photos to give your eyes some visual stimulation instead of constantly reading my thoughts.
enjoy.
with love and peace,
mrs. B
enjoy.
with love and peace,
mrs. B
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